


Be Still With Me

by Darkrivertempest



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Angst and Humor, Blind Character, F/M, Hurt/Comfort, Mild Language, Spell Damage, massage therapy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-04-26
Updated: 2015-04-26
Packaged: 2018-03-25 21:40:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3826003
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Darkrivertempest/pseuds/Darkrivertempest
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p><i>Love, far from being blind, is the very emotion that allows us to see. ~ Cristina Nehring.</i>  </p><p>Severus, with Hermione's help, finally sees what he's been missing.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Be Still With Me

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Wildcard_fic](https://archiveofourown.org/gifts?recipient=Wildcard_fic).



> Written for Wildcard_fic for the SS/HG 2014 promptfest on LJ. I learned a great deal when researching for this fic, and lots of credit goes to TommyEdisonXP on YouTube for his enthusiastic and indomitable spirit on the day-to-day life of someone who is blind. 
> 
> Many wonderful thanks to my betas, Delphipsmith and Toblass - you ladies are freaking awesome!
> 
>  
> 
>  **Disclaimer:** _The characters and canon situations in the following story belong solely to JK Rowling, Scholastic and WB. I am not making any money from the publishing or writing of this story._

“Stale as usual,” I mutter, looking over the _Cimicifuga Racemosa_ root supply stuffed into an oak box.

I could feel Luna Lovegood give in to a resigned sigh as she peers over my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Professor Snape. It’s hard to obtain fresh Black Cohosh. It has to be shipped from America and—”

“I’m not interested in its circuitous route to your shop, Miss Lovegood, only that you carry it.”

“Ah,” she says with a knowing smile. “So that’s why you always appear at the beginning of the month.”

I narrow my eyes at her. “You happen to be the only supplier of the root in this vicinity, so it stands to reason that I’d naturally grace your shop to purchase it.” I try to look imperious. “Honestly, Lovegood… weren’t you sorted into Ravenclaw for a reason?”

She shrugs, clearly unperturbed, and beckons me to follow her into the back of the shop where all her inventory is sorted. After watching her search for her wand for several moments, I take pity on the daft witch, pluck it from her flowing locks, and present it to her. I’m unprepared for the high-pitched squeal that issues from her small person as she thanks me profusely. My back hunches and I cringe at her tight grip on my hand. Mercifully, she lets go only moments later, but the damage is already done. 

It has always been thus, this shunning of bodily contact. But now, it’s for different reasons. 

In my youth, it was the stinging slap of my father’s hand (or worse, his belt) that I tried to avoid. My mother touched me only when necessary, and sometimes even that was too much. At Hogwarts, every brush of fabric (imagined or otherwise), every lingering touch brought with it the possibility of a curse, never trusting said contact not to inflict pain or retribution. Lily was quite gentle if or when she happened to lay a finger on me, but oddly, those sensations pained me more than a hex landing upon my flesh. I eventually shied away from those as well. It was for the best, for the lines between metaphorical and actual physical pain began to blur once I was introduced to Tom Riddle, and touch of any kind was intolerable.

I cloaked myself from head to toe in garments meant to shield, to protect. But it was not enough to guard against the vile nature of the Dark Lord and his desire to press his very essence under my skin. The Dark Mark was a viable, living thing that crawled beneath my epidermis, worming its way into my mind, ready to slowly destroy my own soul with putrefaction. The demise of my former master was the only thing that spared me the hairsbreadth length I came to being the piece of pock-marked driftwood that the curse would’ve left me. 

In its place, however, I carry a bone-deep ache, a miniscule crushing of my joints, cartilage and marrow. There is always agony but, depending on the time of year or weather, it is more bearable on some days than others. My movements must be controlled to a degree that allows for no sudden actions, and shaking hands is enough to send a flare of teeth-clenching pain straight up my spine to reside at the base of my skull. 

Thankfully, Lovegood moves away and proceeds to open the wooden crate that has ‘Product of the United States’ stamped all over the slats. 

“I just received a reserve supply of the root so it may be fresher than what is on the shelves,” she grunts as she digs around in the bottom of the box, her bum high in the air as she wades through the packing material.

The red throb of pain in my hand is branching out like spider silk strands weaving their way through damaged tissue. In twenty minutes time I won’t be able to remain upright, so I must leave now, with or without the precious root. But I’m taken by surprise when Lovegood’s arm shoots up from the box holding a bag speckled with tiny holes, and very fresh Black Cohosh root inside. Her head is still embedded in the deepest part of the box, but she waggles the bag to grab my attention long enough for me to take it. 

I snatch it with my uninjured hand. 

She reappears and looks ridiculous with straw poking out of her hair. “Don’t worry about paying me, I know you’ll reimburse me with the scar cream,” she assures me. 

Her words immediately draw my attention to the marks that can just be seen above her collar. Tendrils of scar tissue that were once purple are now fading to pink since I’ve been providing an ointment comprised of rosehip seed oil, aloe vera, tea tree oil, sandalwood powder, coconut oil, lavender oil, fenugreek and _Azadirachta Indica_ , or neem leaves. The mundane ingredients for the ointment are nothing compared to the rare root Lovegood is furnishing me with, the price and preparation wildly skewed.

“I have means to pay for—”

“Harry’s scar is much more pronounced than mine,” she says idly, paying no heed to my somewhat injured pride. “Now, he doesn’t have to compete with me in the life-altering-but-nifty-conversation-piece-marking. He wins, no questions asked. I think he should send you a thank-you note.”

I cannot for the life of me form any words that would be prudent at this juncture. The Lovegoods have always, to use a Muggle phrase, marched to their own drummer. She smiles serenely at me and I’m reminded of a fae creature, unconcerned with the views of the world, dancing deep in the Forbidden Forest. A moment later and she turns to resume her search through the crate.

“Decidedly odd child,” I mutter and return to the main part of the shop. 

The pain in my hand is manageable at the moment, so I peruse the contents of another wooden drawer labelled _Capsaicin_ for my final ingredient. Knowing that Lovegood’s father kept an Erumpent horn on display in his home, no matter the extremely volatile nature of said horn, I am careful when I open this particular drawer. 

My caution pays off when I spy several packets with _Assam_ stamped in red on the outside. I don’t need to handle the packets as the smell alone has identifies the dried _Bhut Jolokia_ within. It is a powerful chili, an interspecies hybrid of _Capsicum Chinense_ and _Capsicum Frutescens_ , creating an extreme level of heat, which can be harnessed to numb nerve endings and neuropathy for hours. I cast a spell that will protect my skin in order to procure the item, but then I spy a sealed container of _Dorset Naga_ towards the back. _Dorset Naga_ is a substrain of the _Bhut Jolokia_ and more potent. Researchers have recorded its measurement of heat as over 1.5 million Scoville units… absolutely perfect for my intended use. 

I’m about to remove the single container when I am distracted by two voices raised in heated argument.

“Hermione, you need to reconsider. Think about what’s already happened.”

“That lech Galvin Gudgeon was _your_ mistake, Ronald Weasley!” 

“You said you wanted someone to practice on!”

“He told me that his face was all tingly and that his arse was being massaged by golden elves.” An infuriated noise, then, “I wasn’t anywhere near his arse! Your teammate just wanted his Snitch caught.”

I can’t hold back my snort of laughter, so I muffle it in my cloaked elbow. 

A harrumph from Weasley. “All the more reason you shouldn’t do this. People will take advantage of you. I can’t in good conscience let you do this.”

Oh, that ginger idiot. Will he never learn? One does not ‘let’ someone like Hermione Granger ‘do’ things. She either will or she will not, by her own accord, not subject to the whims of others. I wait for her to confirm this. 

“ _Let_ me? Ron, not only will I do it, I’ll succeed, just you watch me!”

Moving behind a high bookshelf, I observe two-thirds of the Golden Trio bickering about something Granger is haphazardly pinning to the advertisement board that hangs just inside the main doorway to Lovegood’s shop. Her companion has a look of exasperation, fear and not a small bit of jealousy mingling in his expression. Probably the result of Granger handling Keeper Gudgeon’s Snitch (whether intended or not), while Weasley is left with only his hand for company. 

“You’re not serious,” Weasley growls, grabbing Granger’s elbow and trying to steer her away from the board. “You don’t even have a client base.”

As if that pithy excuse would be enough to stop the termagant. It is my stance in life to avoid confrontation whenever possible, preferring to observe events as they unfold and make use of the information as I see fit. However, when Granger starts to struggle within the wizard’s grasp, my previous inclination to remain unobtrusive goes by the wayside. 

Granger finally pushes her companion as hard as she can while remaining upright. “Don’t you manhandle me! I may be blind, but I can take care of myself,” she hisses, rubbing her arm where he had gripped her. 

Weasley moves to grasp her again, but my presence brings an abrupt halt to his actions. “Is there a problem?”

The wizard immediately freezes at my drawling tone, and I allow myself a self-satisfied smirk, pleased that I can still call up the hatred that lies just beneath the surface in my former students. “No problem, sir,” Weasley grumbles and hesitantly steps back. 

Granger senses the tension and angles her head in the direction of my voice, her expression curious. I dart my gaze between the both of them and arch my brow, letting him know I expect a better answer. When none is forthcoming, I cross my arms and glare at Weasley, even though the forgotten pain in my hand is now returning with a vengeance and radiating up my forearm. 

“We were just leaving,” Weasley adds with a grimace, and begins pulling on Granger’s sleeve, trying to manoeuvre her out of the shop. 

But Granger is having none of it. Shaking loose of his hand, she sends a nasty look in his direction. “Leave off, Ron. I can find my own way home.”

“Last time you tried to do that, you mistook a rubbish bin for a freed house-elf and tried to cajole it to leave the streets and work for you. Then, when it refused to budge, you stomped off and ended up with burrs stuck to your cloak after you left a trail of toppled table stands in the marketplace.” He glanced outside. “And, it’s just started sleeting. You’ll fall for sure.”

Although Granger does not refute her friend’s description of past exploits, it galls me for some unnamed reason that Weasley is more of a hindrance to her than her recently acquired impairment. “I see fame has not taught you manners, Mr Weasley.” I glower at him for good measure. “If Miss Granger wishes to return at her leisure, then she is surely capable of doing so.”

The witch slowly turns until her gaze is pointed at my shoulder. “Thank you,” she says softly, a smile lighting her features.

Force of habit leads me to nod my head in acceptance. It doesn’t matter that Granger cannot see it.

Weasley throws his arms in the air. “You’ve become impossible, Hermione! How am I supposed to help—”

“Help me what, Ron? Live? I need to do that by myself, I can’t keep depending on you and Harry.”

Now this is interesting. How had Granger been dependent on the two dunderheads? 

“That’s not how we see it, and you know it… especially not me,” Weasley murmurs sullenly.

Granger heaves a long-suffering sigh. “You’ll eventually need to forgive yourself,” she says quietly. “I did long ago.”

I watched Weasley fidget and rub the back of his neck as if he bears a heavy burden. “I just feel responsible, is all.”

Oh, ho! News indeed. Everyone in the wizarding world knew that Miss Granger had been cursed during the waning hours of the battle of Hogwarts. I’d been busy staunching the flow of blood from the lacerations inflicted by that reprehensible serpent the Dark Lord set upon me, so I was unable to join others in the fight. I was in St Mungo’s for months before I was released and found the state of our world was in shambles, but that there was a decided peace drifting over the debris. As with any war, though, with serenity came despair, and I learned that I was the last of my generation left alive. And while the trio suffered no fatalities (Potter’s miraculous death and rebirth aside), none escaped without great cost. 

The Weasleys had lost a son, a twin his brother. Though I am indifferent to the Weasleys, I don’t envy George Weasley the rest of his life—it will forever be missing a vital piece. Andromeda Black (she will always be a Black in my eyes) lost all her family save her grandchild. 

Potter now moved about his life as if he were simultaneously thrilled and despairing to be amongst the living. At the time I was cursing Potter’s name for stuffing a Bezoar down my gullet before he left me in the Shrieking Shack, the boy was facing the Dark Lord, just as Dumbledore had planned. I don’t know what happened in the Forbidden Forest between the both of them, and I am loathe to ask, but I believe Potter caught a glimpse of the Afterlife and will forever wonder if he made the correct choice to return to this world. I want to hate him as I did his father, but the boy is… dare I say it, kinder, more world-weary, lacking the arrogance of his sire. If Potter did indeed see Elysium, then I can understand his conflict, because here in this world, there is nothing but pain. Everything is hard, bright, and violent. To have experienced a state of being where nothing hurt and all your burdens were removed, and then to voluntarily return to hell on earth… well, I’ve gained a new respect for the boy. I don’t think I would’ve had the resolve to accomplish this feat, getting through the next moment, knowing what I’d lost. 

And then there was Granger, who had lost her sight. The details were sketchy, but rumour has it that while lurking about in the Chamber of Secrets, she came upon a Basilisk hatchling; though it was not powerful enough to petrify her, she was instantly blinded. Another tale had a stray hex hitting her in the face before she had a chance to block or counter it. Yet another had her ingesting a potion that clouded the eyes permanently. In the two years that have passed since Riddle was obliterated, not one shred of evidence has ever been produce to prove or disprove any of the theories. And Granger herself has been utterly silent on the subject. 

I find myself oddly intrigued as to how it really happened. 

“Well, it wasn’t intentional,” Granger mutters, turning from Weasley and reaching to touch the board again. “Now go. I still have several places I need to visit and I know for a fact that Harry needs your help choosing a new broom.”

“But I—”

“If Miss Granger requires assistance, I will be at hand, Mr Weasley.” After witnessing Weasley’s idea of ‘help’, I’m certain I don’t want her subject to his attentions. I’m not entirely sure why I feel the need to pry them apart, other than my perpetual exasperation with the ginger imbecile. “I’m not quite decrepit yet.” 

Weasley’s eyes look like they’re about to bulge out of his head as he gapes at me. He then looks me up and down, gaze narrowed, then has the audacity to sneer at me. “Fine. I’ll see you this evening, Hermione.” He busses her cheek and leaves.

Once the door closes behind him, Granger lowers her head and sags against the wall in relief. “I can’t thank you enough for your timely intervention,” she breathes, rubbing her temples.

All the stubborn will and fight I’d witnessed earlier seems to have drained from her body. “Your reluctance to comply with his wishes was plain to see, even in your condition.”

She frowns and stands a little straighter. “My condition?”

“Don’t feign wounded pride, Miss Granger. It is a known fact that you are irrevocably blind.”

A wave of relief washes over her face. “Oh, that!” She laughs lightly and waves nonchalantly. “I thought you were presuming I was in a ‘delicate condition’.”

Dear Merlin, the idea that she might have let Weasley paw at her to that extent is enough to make me revisit my last meal. But, damn my curiosity, I must know. “Are you?” I ask, as I study her midsection, willing it not to be so. It bothers and fascinates me in turn.

“What? No!” Tilting her head to the left then right, she leans towards me. “Do I look pregnant, Professor?” she whispers anxiously. 

I stifle a snort of humour. “Quite the opposite,” I drawl, taking stock of her appearance. Admittedly, I haven’t laid eyes on many of my former students in the past two years—too busy trying to halt the pain in my body and mind to pay attention to their further ambitions. I knew Granger would become someone of substance and importance in the wizarding world, however, so when I heard very little of her in the ensuing months, of course I was curious. Now that I was faced with her presence, I found she was more than tolerable, and I cursed myself for such foolish thoughts. “You look…” I pause, staring into her sightless eyes. “Healthy,” I mutter at last and avert my gaze, though she sees nothing. 

“Healthy?” Her mouth screws up in a moue of petulance as she pats her body down, feeling the flesh on her arms and stomach, finally reaching around and touching her backside. “I’ve got lots of layers under this robe, what with it being January and so bloody cold, and I hope you’re being honest when you say that I don’t look pregnant.”

I swallow past the dryness in my mouth. “Though I still practice subterfuge, Miss Granger, I can assure you that my observations, though biased, are as close to true as possible.” Gods, I’m starting to sound like Longbottom. Biased, indeed. I pray she does not pick up on…

“Why biased?” she asks with a little sniffle, her nose red from the raw chill of the outdoors. 

Of course she would pick up on that accidental blunder. She waits, though her focus is just to the left of my shoulder. I shift minutely, uncomfortable with the awkward conversation and the pain now lacing its way up my bicep. Amazingly, my movement causes her to turn her head slightly until it’s pointed straight at my face, her expression intense. 

It’s disconcerting. Not that her loss of vision is off-putting. Quite the contrary. Whatever caused her blindness hasn’t removed the intelligent radiance that shines from her brown irises. One would have to study Hermione Granger for an extended length of time to realise she was blind, for her attitude and ability are that of someone who has never been impaired. That I have no qualms about that particular examination (or its length) is what is disconcerting to me. It’s perilously close to the path I travelled with Lily Evans, and the results of that consumed the better part of my life. To willingly tread down a similar path again, with a former student, no less, is a fool’s folly. 

Huffing in irritation—at her question, at her presence, at my inability to lie with the ease of years past—I move away to reopen the _Capsaicin_ drawer. “I will always see you as the silly, know-it-all swot that graced my classroom for nigh on seven years,” I grumble, retrieving the item and shutting the drawer. “I was not charged with noticing the advancement of student’s bodies, only their minds.”

“So, I will always be that toothy, bushy-haired, annoyingly brilliant teacher’s pet to you, right?” she says with a slight smirk, deliberately trying to provoke a reaction from me. 

“You were never _my_ pet, Miss Granger.” Even though she cannot see it, I hope she feels the sneer radiating from my person. That should put an end to her cheeky attitude. 

Chuckling, she smiles wide. “No, but I was McGonagall’s.” She turns back to the board, feels around for an empty space, and finally pins her leaflet to the corkboard. “Besides, being _your_ pet would’ve been a sure sign of the end of the world, wizarding and Muggle alike.”

The idea amuses me, her being my pet. But I dismiss this fertile ground of possibility before it could take root in my brain—that way madness lies. “At least we are in agreement,” I grouse. I mean to cease the conversation and finish my perusal of goods, but the pain I wilfully ignored earlier makes itself known with a piercing vengeance. “Blast,” I gasp and drop the container of potent chili as the muscles in my right arm seize and become rigid. 

The pain brings me to tears and to my knees in a mortifying display. Thank Merlin, only Granger is in the shop, while Lovegood is still in the stockroom room taking inventory. 

“Professor?”

I cannot answer her; the pain is travelling across my back, leaving my muscles to spasm. If I don’t move now, I’ll lose all bodily function within a minute.

As my body starts to hunch over, I feel a cool hand on my brow. My neck is rigid, so I cannot look up, but I see Granger’s boot-clad feet in my line of vision. It’s on the tip of my tongue to demand that she not touch me, but I cannot pry my jaw open to form the words. She drops down to kneel with me, one hand holding my face while the other carefully makes its way to the back of my head, where her fingers start massaging my nape. I cannot help from moaning at the blessed relief her touch brings to me. This cannot be! How is she able to press into my abused flesh and not cause agony, but exquisite release instead? 

“This will relax contracted muscles, improve blood and lymphatic circulation, and stimulate the stretch reflex in your muscles,” Granger says quietly. “It will also decrease muscle reflex activity and inhibit motor-neuron excitability.”

I don’t particularly care what it does as long as she doesn’t stop.

She laughs lightly. “All right.”

Damn. I must have said that aloud. But I couldn’t care less, because the muscles in my neck are gradually relaxing, enough that I can at least turn my head. Which brings me nose-to-nose with Granger.

The moment the tip of my nose touches hers, Granger smiles. “Hello, Professor.”

She is so close, I can see the dilation in her pupils. It is the loveliest thing I have ever witnessed. “Severus,” I breathe.

I think it impossible, but her eyes shine even more. “Severus.” The hand cupping my face trails down to rest against my throat. “Say that again, please.”

“My name is Severus.”

A little huff and she smiles even wider. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“First, are you able to move now?”

I am so involved in our conversation that my pain was shunted to the side. Now, taking stock of my body, I find that yes, I am still aching, but the severity is greatly diminished. Hesitantly, I shift and brace myself to stand. My muscles quiver but eventually I am upright, though I sway a bit.

Granger must have sensed my movement, for she reaches out and grabs hold of my forearm to steady me. “Good. Now, do you have anything pressing for the rest of the day?”

“Barring the fact that it’s the ninth of January, none. No soirees, no get-togethers, no having friends over for a drink.” 

She frowns. “Oh.” Her eyes widen after a moment. “Oh! It’s your birthday! I would ask if you’re having a good day, but I think the answer is obvious.”

I snort. “Quite.”

“So you’re free, then?”

“What are you up to, Miss Granger?”

Her nose wrinkles, and dear Merlin, I find it adorable. “If I may call you Severus, you must call me Hermione. ‘Miss Granger’ makes me sound like I’m doomed to be a crazy cat witch.”

“Merlin forbid.” 

“Exactly. So, as a present, you shall become my first client.”

“Client?” I mutter weakly. “I don’t think—”

“Pay Luna so we can leave.”

“Already paid,” came a tinkling voice from the storeroom. 

She pulls me towards the door, but I dig in my heels. “I haven’t paid!”

Lovegood sticks her head out between several long strands of beads. “Don’t offend me, Professor Snape. Your Galleons are no good here.” She winks at me and disappears.

“But I—”

“Come on!”

I follow, realising resistance is futile.

* * *

Hermione takes me to her home in Lambeth, on Kennington Road. There are four levels to this terraced house and each one is devoted to a passion of hers—the hour-long tour she took me on was quite detailed. The ground floor was originally an extended reception area that she converted into a massive room dedicated to massage therapy and osteopathic healing. The flooring is old and wooden, and so creaks with every footstep. I have a feeling that this serves as a mechanism by which she can estimate where a person is standing or walking, as well as being aesthetically pleasing. 

The first floor houses the other double reception room, which has floor to ceiling bookshelves that are overflowing. I asked about her method of reading, for surely she would never let her eyesight become a hindrance for such a love of the written word. She explains that a simple spell allows for the words to become audible, the type of narration adjustable depending on her mood. I observe that the furniture is specifically placed at regular intervals, leaving wide spaces to manoeuvre. In the kitchen, the area is large, airy and bright. The second and third floors contain the bedrooms and baths. I give them only a cursory glance and retreat almost immediately. 

After the tour, we return to her ‘office’ and she directs me to a changing room with only a white sheet to preserve my tattered dignity. 

“I most certainly will not!” I balk, ferociously. I dislike baring any skin even within my own home, let alone in the presence of a former student. 

She arches a brow and crosses her arms. “I will _Stupefy_ you, if needed.” 

“You wouldn’t dare,” I seethe. 

“It’s not like I’ll see your bits, Severus,” she huffs. “And even if I could, it’s not something I haven’t seen before. I did travel with two teenaged boys for almost a year. I think you can imagine I saw quite a lot during that time.”

“That isn’t the point!” I ground out. “This is completely inappropriate!” 

An expression akin to the one Lily gave me on several occasions when she didn’t understand the reasons for my behaviour flits across Hermione’s face. “Why? I need to have access to your body for the therapy to be effective, and this is the best way to achieve that and not be completely bare. Wouldn’t you risk perceived indignation to gain a modicum of relief? I only want to help and you’re being unreasonable.”

“It isn’t ‘perceived indignation’ if upon your finishing with me, you run straight to the Quibbler and describe, in great detail, how misshapen Severus Snape truly is. Why should I willingly be a party to—”

“You think I would do that?” she whispers, and I catch my first glimpse of her vulnerability. “That I could be so cruel?”

“It is all I have ever known,” I sneer. “Why would you be so different?”

She clears her throat and steps back until she senses there is a chair behind her, only to drop onto the seat looking defeated. “Of course, why should I be so different,” she muses. She places her right hand over a selection of bottles, letting her fingers idly caress the cork stoppers. “I can’t offer you proof that I would never do such a thing, other than I absolutely loathe Rita Skeeter with a passion of a thousand suns. I also can’t offer you proof of my ability, for I’ve been studying these past two years and am now ready to build a client base.” She tilts her head in my direction. “I would ask that you recall how my touch felt in Luna’s shop.”

I don’t want to recall it, even though it brought me immense relief. “An isolated incident.”

Hermione snorts. “Is that so? When has anyone ever touched you in kindness? Severus, whether you admit to it or not, you are touch-starved.” 

“I’m not familiar with—”

“Failure to thrive is another term,” she says and straightens her spine. “Did you know, new-borns who received just three 15-minute sessions of touch therapy each day for 5-10 days gained 47 percent more weight than infants who’d received standard treatment? These infants became more resilient to stress, with a stronger immune system.” Dear Merlin, I can actually see her gearing up for a lecture. “Historically speaking, this is why an overwhelming percentage of infants in orphanages where caretakers starved them of touch have failed to grow to their expected height or weight, and have shown behavioural problems.”

“I wasn’t an orphan,” I point out. Not that I hadn’t wished it on numerous occasions, especially when my father was deep in his cups.

She rolled her eyes and got to her feet, only to reach out a hand to me. “Come here, please.”

Her words cause an ache to coil in my chest, and I obey without further thought, placing my hand in hers. 

“Thank you,” she says with a crooked smile. “This gesture, the one most people take for granted every day, is our primary language of compassion, and a primary means for spreading compassion.” She squeezes my palm gently. “Touch activates the brain’s orbitofrontal cortex, which is linked to feelings of reward. It signals safety and trust, it soothes and calms cardiovascular stress. It activates the body’s vagus nerve, which is intimately involved with our compassionate response, and a simple touch can trigger release of oxytocin.”

“Are you expecting your clients to fall in love with you?” I retort, hoping to ignore the simple and soft caress she is applying to my palm. 

She laughs. “Stranger things have happened.” Two of her fingers have come to rest on my pulse. “See? Already, your heart-rate has decreased from the rapid beat that I felt in the shop. Do you want more scientific proof that massage will—”

“Cease!” I snap. If I let her continue in this vein, I will surely become discombobulated. I fear I am nearly there when I capitulate. “Fine. I will give you this once chance to ply your trade.”

Her face transforms into a brilliance that causes something heady to pool in my stomach. Oh, this was an impetuous decision. 

“Thank you.” She then squeezes my shoulder and waves in the general direction of two doors. “I’ll leave you to it. Just call out when you’re situated.”

In my youth, I often found myself in sticky situations, first due to my antagonistic nature, later the fact that I was associated with the Dark Lord and Slytherin. The situation I find myself in now is unprecedented, and I’m unsure as to how to react.

She returns when I am lying face down on a padded table, my head cradled on both sides by a pillowed face-rest. My body is bare, save for a large sheet covering my posterior and the upper half of my thighs. I’m bloody cold, my sinuses are becoming stuffy and Hermione is off to my left, humming as she gathers bits and bobs. I turn my head to study her, noticing that her feet are bare and her toes grip the floorboards. Whether it is for balance or some sort of depth perception, I know not, for once again, she moves as if she could see everything and with very little hesitation.

As if she senses me watching her, she smiles. “I’ve had two years to memorise where everything is, Severus. I know exactly how many steps it takes to get to the loo and where the jojoba oil is located on the third shelf. If someone were to move things from where I originally put them, I would cope, but I’d have to relearn their placement.” With a flick of her wrist, she sends a spell to the hearth on my right and warmth begins to infuse the room. 

She has removed all the layers that covered her for her trek outdoors and is now clad in Muggle denims that look like they’ve seen better days, but they also look unbelievably comfortable, especially with the flared cuffs at the bottom. She has shed her outer robe and is now clad in a slate blue cardigan, with a white form-fitting tee underneath. Once the heat permeates the room, however, she removes the cardigan as well, leaving her arms bare. I watch the muscles in her arms shift as she gathers and lifts her thick hair and twists it until it’s in a shape she desires before threading her wand through the centre of the bun to secure it, though a few tendrils escape. 

“So, you asked why I thanked you earlier,” Hermione begins. 

Her words draw me from my examination and I return my face to the padded rest. “I found it rather odd that you should thank me when I should have offered my gratitude for diverting my crippling pain.”

“How long have you had the… erm…”

“The most excruciating pain imaginable?” I supply for her. “Always.”

“Always?”

“I don’t believe your hearing is affected as well, Miss… Hermione.”

She laughs at my correction. “I could get used to that. Miss Hermione.” She selects a clear, verdant green vial from amongst a plethora of differently shaped bottles and uncaps it. I’m more than pleased when she defers to me as a Potions master and holds it near my nose so that I may discern the contents.

“Sunflower oil as the base,” I murmur. “Laced with vitamin E, spearmint and…” The last ingredient escapes me. 

“Eucalyptus,” she offers. “My parents send me fresh batches from Melbourne.”

Ah. Eucalyptus is an ingredient I rarely use. In fact, I can only recall using it once in any potion, which failed miserably. 

“Eucalyptus oil stimulates immune system response by its effects on the phagocytic ability of human monocyte derived macrophages. The anti-inflammatory and analgesic qualities as a topically applied liniment help ailments such as yours,” she explains as she pours a liberal amount on her palms and works it into her skin. 

“Yes, thank you, I do know what the medicinal properties of eucalyptus oil are, Hermione.”

She laughs nervously. “Right.” The heat from her skin reaches me before her actual flesh does. Once there, she begins rubbing the oil into my back in circular motions, graduating into deep tissue massage. “I said thank you because you allowed me to touch and help you, and let me truly hear your voice.”

These are all peculiar things for which to thank me. One doesn’t normally thank another for allowing touch, especially when it comes to me. As for helping me, there was little I could have done at that moment but accept her help. I would’ve soiled myself otherwise. And as for my voice? Learning to modulate its tone and inflection was the by-product of ridding myself of a slight lisp I had had as a child, before I even met Lily. Had I started Hogwarts with such a speech impediment, I might not have made it past my first month. 

She’s found a particularly stubborn knot of muscle just under my right scapula and sets up a gentle but brutal attack with her fingers. “When I want to differentiate someone from a crowd, I listen to the tone of their voice. It’s a myth that blind people ‘see’ different people by touching their face. Besides being wildly inappropriate, I’m not going to get much information from feeling your pores or stubble, other than the shape of your nose.”

“There’s a lot of nose to feel,” I snort.

She pauses for a moment and then lets loose a full-bodied laugh. “Just remember _you_ said that, not I.” 

“I know all my short-comings, Hermione,” I say a little bitterly. “They are so obvious even you can see them.”

Her hands stop moving. “That’s not true.” She resumes, concentrating her therapy on the left shoulder. “Well, I mean, everyone has things about themselves they wish they could change, but intrinsically, you are a good person, Severus.” 

I don’t know if it’s her words or the chemicals released during the massage, but I feel tears gathering at the corners of my eyes. I refuse to become bogged down with sentiment, however, and am about to refute her assertion that I’m anywhere near angelic, when she continues. 

“I’ve found there are some very positive things about being blind.”

“What, lower electric bill?” I snip thoughtlessly.

“Among other things,” she agrees. “Were the lights on when we came home?”

“Just the one over the kitchen sink.”

“Oh, good! I don’t want to argue with the utilities board again about how my neighbour is syphoning the electric current from my breaker box.” She’s digging her knuckles in deep in either side of my spine and I inadvertently moan from the exquisite pleasure-pain it induces. “That was a very nasty knot.”

I can only whimper in response.

“But truly, there are some benefits to being blind.” She folds down the sheet at my waist until the tops of my buttocks are exposed. “For one thing, I don’t have to watch somebody age,” she admits quietly. She places her thumbs on either side of my sacrum and gently presses. 

“Ah!” It’s like a spike of electricity shoots along all the neuro-pathways throughout my body and brings them alive. “Too much!”

She eases back and rubs the surrounding area. “Sorry. That tends to be a trigger for a lot of people. Stress accumulates there.” 

My body is alternating between overstimulated and a pile of gelatine. “Years of stress,” I pant.

“Hmm, yes.” She returns the sheet to its original place and then begins on my feet. “Not ticklish, are you?”

I blink. “I honestly don’t know. One cannot tickle oneself and I cannot recall if anyone deigned to touch me long enough to find out.” 

“Oh.” Her response is unbearably sad, morose even. 

I won’t have her pity me. I raise my head and look down the table at her. “By my choice, Hermione.”

She gives me an unconvincing smile that looks more like a grimace. “If you say so.” She pours more oil into her hands to warm it and picks up my right foot. “That’s another advantage blind people have over sighted—I’m not constrained by appearance in whether I deem someone worthy. I have no idea of race or beauty. I can only know people based on what comes out of their mouths and what’s in their hearts. What good are a person’s looks if they mean me harm?”

This witch, who is wise beyond her years—has always been thus—makes something twist inside my soul. Why couldn’t there have been a person like this in my youth? Lily, for all that she was kind to me, even when I was abhorrent, didn’t have the capability to see beyond herself like Hermione does. I wonder—had Granger been my friend in my days at Hogwarts, would our world have been changed for the better? I think it would’ve been.

Her fingers dig into the soles of my feet and there is that pleasure-pain sensation again. The intimacy of her touch calls forth something in myself and I speak without even thinking. “What happened to cause you to become blind?”

She stills for a moment before her fingers continue towards my heel. “We, ah…” She clears her throat and I belatedly realise that it was a very personal question and really none of my business.

“You don’t have to answer,” I tell her quickly. “It was… insensitive of me.”

“No, I just…” She sighs and switches to my left foot. “It’s awkward, more than anything. Ron, Harry and I were in the Room of Requirement, trying to find Ravenclaw’s diadem. Crabbe, Goyle and Draco were there as well, trying to stop us.”

“Draco,” I growl. “Spoiled brat.”

She laughs. “I won’t argue with you there. But when we finally found the diadem, so did Draco and his minions. Hexes and curses went astray, on both sides. I remember diving under a Victorian chaise lounge, hoping to avoid Crabbe long enough to get out the door. I had the diadem, but he didn’t know that. Draco thought Harry had it, and they were on another side of the chamber. Goyle was lost and Ron was looking for me, calling out my name. I wanted to tell him where I was, but that would mean revealing my location. The decision was taken out of my hands when Ron rounded a high stack of broken classroom chairs and found Crabbe just about to look under the sofa where I was hidden. Ron spotted me and flung an _Excaecare_ hex towards Crabbe, to blind him and keep him from seeing my hiding spot. Unfortunately, Crabbe moved at the same time the spell landed and I was the only one affected.”

Ah, that explained Weasley’s insistence that he help her. No wonder Granger was suffocated by his presence—he was drowning her in his own guilt. There is no known counter-curse or reversal for _Excaecare_ ; why in Merlin’s name had the fool been using an advanced spell such as that? 

“It’s not his fault,” she murmurs, having correctly read my thoughts. “I knew he was only trying to protect me.” She switches to my calves and her movements become more languid. 

That this witch has been made to suffer when she’s only served others causes a fervent desire within me to seek out a cure, no matter the cost. “If you could see again, would you choose to do so?”

She halts abruptly and quickly removes her hands. “I… I don’t know.” Before she turns away to wipe off her hands, I see a faint tinge of colour on her cheeks.

I sit up, keeping the sheet around my lower body, and snag her shaking fingers. “It was only a question. The Hermione Granger I know would never be afraid of answering a question.”

“The Hermione Granger you knew was very different,” she retorted. “That witch was so eager to please, desperate to fit in, always on the move and wary of every shadow that crossed her path. Now? I just want to be still, at peace. Being blind has afforded me some of that peace—I’m more focused, I’m forced to use my other senses instead of relying on one.” She grasps my hand holding hers. “You ask me if I’d like to see again. Truthfully? I would in all likelihood say no.”

“No?”

“No. I think it would be utterly frightening. I’ve been without my sight for a little over two years. All the information I gather now is from attuning my other senses—hearing, touch, smell, taste. To reverse that...suddenly, there would be this bombardment of information that I’ve long forgotten how to process, pouring in nonstop. Do you know how disorienting that would be? The first few days would be exhausting, trying to process everything. I’d probably suffer some form of post-traumatic stress disorder and lash out at others. I’d have to relearn how things look, rather than how they feel. I’d have to gauge distance, not in how many steps does it take to reach my cooker, but in centimetres.”

I understand her reasoning, but Granger has never backed down from a challenge. “These are all things that can be overcome with time, Hermione.”

A peculiar look comes over her face. She raises her hand and tentatively places it against my face. “I would have to relearn what beauty is.” Her thumb brushes my cheek and even though she can’t see me, I feel very strongly that she _is_ seeing me somehow. “But I know these things. Why would I need to see what I can already feel?” 

I cannot breathe, for the life of me, I cannot draw a single breath. 

“If seeing again means that I forget how the low tones of your voice vibrate against my hand, then where is the incentive?” She smiles serenely and brushes a strand of hair behind my ear. “If seeing means that you would choose to be apart from me because of some muddled idea of beauty you may think I have, why should I want that?”

I want to hide from her keen perception, but I am trapped by the honesty in her eyes. Her sightless eyes… eyes that see every damn thing inside me. 

“I don’t offer you pity, Severus. I know what’s going through that head of yours.”

“Do you?” I whisper, because I can’t form a coherent thought.

She lays her cheek against mine, and it takes everything within me not to whimper at the tender touch. “Be still with me. Be at peace with me. Know that your journey is over, that the long-fought and hard-won victory has been achieved. You’ve more than earned your respite.”

All the tension, stress, anxiety, every hellish thing that I’ve carried with me all of my life and that has weighed me down, gradually lifts from my bones. It isn’t a sudden thing, more of a slow lessening of a burden, akin to Atlas with the world lifted from his shoulders. I can’t help but sag against Hermione, and she gathers me into her embrace and just holds me, her face nuzzling against my temple.

It is the first time I have welcomed another’s touch. 

With Hermione in my life, I know it will not be the last.


End file.
